


Primadonna

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Can you see where I’m going with this, John is a teacher, M/M, Paul is a student, mature themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-05-03 17:22:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14573865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When John Lennon reverts to teaching as a last-resort to impress his expectant aunt, he is dismayed to find himself inevitably stuck dealing with a group of reprehensible teenagers; the renowned narcissist Paul McCartney being the pinnacle of his problems for reasons both positive and negative.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in this website and I have next to no clue how things work, so apologies in advance! Also, please bear in mind that this is an AU (meaning the characters will NOT relate to their actual personas) and that there will be a 5-year age difference between Paul and John (Paul is 17 and in year 11 - I know that doesn’t add up at the moment but I promise it will later - and John is 22). If you feel uncomfortable with the idea of a relatively large age gap please stop reading.  
> Anyhow, sorry the first chapter is so short. The others will be longer. :-)

Four years. Four laborious years of slaving away at an art degree for _this_.

At six o'clock in the morning the rousing neighbourhood had just begun to blink drowsily into motion. Engines rumbled below the eleventh-floor apartment and the bustling crowds of rush hour left a low hum of anticipation lingering in the air.

As if on cue an obnoxious alarm broke the silence; blaring out at full volume and sending the bedraggled John Lennon tumbling to the floor in a heap of whimsically flailing limbs and sun-soaked duvet.

Sunlight spearheaded through the open window with an almost painful gaiety, pooling across the now-vacant cotton sheets like blood staining snow. At what surely must have been considered an illegal hour for the typically nocturnal twenty-two year old, John Lennon was compelled to drag himself out of bed for a class of (no doubt) utterly insufferable teenagers - just as he had once been himself. Instead of being a slight comfort in a situation as dire as this, the idea of dealing with children as repellent as his teenage self only put him off the idea of teaching further.

Throwing a pale, freckled arm over his face in an attempt to block out the incessant sun, he shakily got to his feet - still reluctant to let go of the duvet - and grabbed his mobile phone with a loud whine, fumbling with the hideously cracked screen till he could make out the time. Surely he'd set his alarm several hours earlier by mistake? Or had the clocks been set back again?

6:02 exactly. Bugger. He didn't even feel alive.

"Good _fucking_ morning," John mumbled indistinctly to himself, suddenly well aware that he hadn't even woken, let alone gotten out of bed, this early, well...ever. How he'd even gotten into this situation still remained a shock.

Having inherited somewhat of a restless gene from his (as of current) absent mother whom had ever-so ironically abandoned him at a young age, he was cursed to jump from one occupation to another. Since leaving college with an A-level in Art and nothing much else to his name, he'd been a (self-proclaimed) artist - or rather, "starving artist" as he'd called it rather than admitting that his vacuous doodles wouldn't pay him more than penny - a (self-proclaimed) musician - if mediocre renditions of Elvis songs at the local pub counted as such - and a (genuine) waiter, though that lasted a solid three days before he realised he hadn't the heart nor the resilience to deal with such a poorly paid job.

Despite his constant requisite for change he hadn't quite the heart to abandon his hometown as of yet. Particularly not since he had the opportunity of a steady job and the potential to start a family someday - though of course it seemed absurd to be thinking so far ahead at this point in time. Lately he had been living in a one-bedroom apartment in good ol' Liverpool and courting a pretty, timid girl named Cynthia who was awfully pleasant but ridiculously faint-hearted, to the point where she effectively complied to whatever he asked of her. Still, she was female. That much in itself was a triumphant eventuality.

Granted, he'd had his fair share of "homosexual" affairs (along with various other unmentionable phases) during his teenage years, but had chosen to leave them behind for the sake of being the kind of man his aunt Mimi wished of him. Marry a woman, have a child; continue the Lennon family tree. It was hardly rocket science. Besides, it was the least he could do bearing in mind she'd willingly looked after him right up until he'd left for college at sixteen, despite his oppressive and rebellious tendencies as a teenager. As a young man he very much encouraged the idea of "free love", and though he was still supportive of it now he learned to be much less wanton about his personal preferences, knowing it upset Mimi so. Though their differences were evident and often caused controversies, John adored his aunt.

Her strict expectations were precisely why he had chosen to take up teaching for the time being; considering it far more "proper" than a starving artist, or a musician, or even a waiter, though that lasted just short of a week. None of his jobs had been particularly advocated, and his current employment had just about managed to win Mimi's endorsement.

Wrapping his duvet tightly around his upper body, John half-waddled to his chest of drawers in the hope of finding something remotely teacher-esque. What did teachers wear, anyway? A shirt and tie? Were band shirts considered acceptable attire? He scrutinised his wardrobe inwardly as he pulled multiple disheveled t-shirts from his drawers, holding up a rumpled Rolling Stones shirt with a contemplative expression.

Having sifted though multiple mismatched piles of clothing, he had discarded a rather large pile of rejections to the side after asking himself "would Mimi approve?" with each contesting item. The obvious answer was, of course, no. Still, he was left with several ancient, unworn shirts in one hand and a relatively smart tie in the other. He supposed he'd have to make do with his minimal options for now, and go shopping for some more appropriate gear later on in the week; perhaps once he'd fully assimilated the teacher's mindset.

Minutes later John was straightening his tie in the dirtied mirror before him, a strange sense of unfamiliarity tugging at his gut as he observed his reflection, smoothing his hair self-consciously. It had been years since he'd worn a suit and tie: the last time being during secondary school, even. Current John Lennon was certainly less disgruntled than his teenage self; with his infamous pompadour abandoned in favour of jaw-length auburn locks hanging loosely about his face, curling irritably at the ends, and his once-stubbled jawline cleanly shaven.

After shooting his aunt a quick text message to reassure her that he had left safely for work - not that she was likely to be able to read it, poor sod - he slipped through the front door and into the uplifting autumnal heat, ignoring his uncertainties about the day ahead.

•

The school looked almost precisely as he remembered it; an old-fashioned red brick building with a sloping roof and an overly large playground swarming with ridiculously intimidating adolescents.

After all these years John found it impossible to subdue the nerves pummelling at his stomach. His hands shook pathetically as he used a newly administrated card of some sort (one of the many perks to working as staff at the school) to open the front gates.

Yes; four years of training to end up where? Exactly where he'd bloody begun.

"Lennon." A crisp, nasally voice broke him from his thoughts as he turned to face a familiar figure; one of straight-backed military posture; face indented with wrinkles and adorned with pale, watery eyes and lips set in a thin, no-nonsense line. Notably, his hair had rather thinned out over the years and the wrinkles about his face had become more prominent. Still, this was the same man alright. It had been almost a decade, but he'd recognise Alan Brown anywhere.

“Good morning, sir," he replied almost immediately, cracking his trademark smirk, "it's been a while."

His (ex) headteacher gave him an unsubtle once-over, lips pursed, before grinning decidedly in return and nodding, "you've turned out rather well, John. Never in a million years did I suspect you would resort to teaching."

John chose not to mention that teaching was not his second, or third, but fourth backup plan. He'd visited the infamous head's office just several times during his high school career and none of them were for positive reasons. If he'd managed to get on his ex-headteacher's good side now - albeit being several years late - he certainly didn't plan on ruining his image anytime soon.

"I've designated Richard Starkey to show you to your classroom," Mr Brown begun to explain as he launched in to a brisk walk, leaving John trying desperately to catch up, "He teaches Biology here at Quarry Bank. I can also ask him to show you round, if you like, but I hardly doubt you'll need a tour."

"That won't be necessary," John nodded in agreement, wringing his hands in a pitiful attempt to prevent them from sweating quite so profusely, "I remember the building well enough." Sly sideway glances boring into the side of his head caused John's gaze to drop uncomfortably to the floor. For years he'd effectively "done his own thing" considering the arts were majorly free in their own right, despite being so poorly paid. Having an authoritative figure so unashamedly judging his appearance as he had done all those years ago brought a strange sense of nostalgia along with a bundle of nerves hammering at his chest which demanded to be recognised.

"You really do seem to have turned out remarkably well," Mr Brown piped up again, failing to hide his evident surprise as he had done so minutes earlier, "I almost feel proud, John. Even students as poorly behaved as you can manage to shape their entire career. Impressive," a light teasing tone was laced in his gruff voice, calming John's nerves to a degree. After huffing out an anxiety-ridden laugh a small figure popped up in front of them with a wild grin etched upon his face, causing him the pair to almost jump out of their skin.

"Richard!" Mr Brown exclaimed, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "this is John Lennon. John, Richard Starkey."

"Pleasure," Richard smiled pleasantly, holding his hand out politely. His fingers were decorated with numerous extravagant (and rather flamboyant) rings, John noted, as he enveloped the jewellery-cladded hand in his own calloused palm.

"Nice to meet you, mate," John replied with a small nod, awkwardness almost instantly falling over the trio once the introduction ordeal was completed. Luckily, Mr Brown (he really ought to start referring to him by his first name) suggested Richard show John his classroom and spend the following half-hour showing him the ins an outs of the school - if he had a free period, that was.

"Glad to help, Al," Richard grinned all-too enthusiastically for 7 o'clock on a Monday morning and made a grab for John's arm, who shook his death-grip off with great difficulty. Either the smaller man didn't acknowledge his reluctance or simply didn't care, because he continued walking with an unaffected bounce in his step.

Together they wound through the school corridors, John lagging behind slightly as he observed his surroundings. Unsurprisingly, the school was almost exactly the same as it had been before. Alan Brown had never been the type of man to like change.

"Right, these are the art classrooms," Richard gestured to a set of appropriately labelled doors, opening them briefly in turn before reaching the end of the corridor, "and this is yours."

In lieu of responding John stood with his arms folded, eyes swivelling around the near-empty classroom. It was strangely bare and bland, considering it was supposed to be an art room. He'd ought to get some colour on the walls as soon as possible. Hopefully the student's artwork would help bring the classroom to life a little.

“From what I've heard this is your first teaching job?" Richard continued nosily, fiddling with his rings absentmindedly as he looked up to meet John's gaze.

"Yeah," John nodded, "finished me degree a few months back an' here I am. Tried the whole art thing out but the pay was shite, so I ended up teaching instead."

His eyes lit up with interest, "let me guess, you were a starving artist of sorts?"

“Spot on," he chuckled lowly in response, vaguely apprised at the mention of his artistic past, "had a band at one point, too. You name it, I’ve probably done it. Unsuccessfully.”

"I used to play drums, back in the day," Richard told him with a faint smile, "Had me own band as well. Course we were complete shit, really, but it was fun while it lasted." His eyes suddenly seemed distant; presumably as he was reminiscing on his younger days.

"Anyhow, welcome back to the school, mate," Richard snapped back to reality, returning to his signature smile, "I hope you enjoy your stay!"

"I hope so too," John muttered, more to himself than to the little lad, who remained standing for a moment longer with a somewhat expectant look on his face before giving up and making for the doorway with an encouraging smile.

"You'll be fine, John," Ringo told him earnestly as he paused, door half-open, "it's scary at first but once you get into the groove of things it's dead easy. Stressful at times, mind, but you can always visit us at the staff room for moral support!"

"Will do," John grinned dubiously, scratching uneasily at the back of his head, "see you, mate."

As the door clicked shut behind Ringo and the tapping of his boots against the polished tiles deteriorated, John was left dithering helplessly in the centre of the room. Besuited and sweating copiously, he dragged a hand across his damp forehead with a long sigh and eyed the paperwork already stacked on his desk.

"Right, Lennon, this is it," he told himself for the upmost time that day, crossing his hands briefly over his chest in mock-prayer, "Don't screw this up."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s chapter 2!!! Apologies for the long wait, I have a ton of exams coming up soon. Also, sorry there’s a lack of... everything, really, in this chapter. It’s more of an introduction to Paul’s character than anything else. The story picks up in the next chapter, however, which is already half-written!

  
Paul McCartney was pretty in the way most boys were.

Sculpted like that of a renaissance painting, he had a face of dewy skin, misleading exemplary smiles and ridiculously large doe eyes – pure archetypal beauty which he exploited to his full advantage. Your classic teenage heartthrob; liable to breaking countless girl's hearts and dangerously capable of inveighing others till they’re merely puppets on strings; willing to comply to his every wish.

He was spiteful, however, in the way most boys were not; finding salvation to his everlasting boredom in only the cruel and the divine. Being decidedly at the top of the popularity hierarchy, he was bone-soaked to the core in the admiration and sense of superiority effectuated by his peers. His narcissistic tendencies led to a blasé inclination toward anybody outside of his personal silver screen; he was perfectly content living an enclosed adolescence, oblivious to the world around him.

Having suffered a difficult childhood, he was not humbled by his losses and misfortunes but instead thrived off them, and as his situation worsened so did his prima-donna-esque attitude. Never mind the trail of destruction left in his wake – the use of subtle manipulation meant even the sharpest of characters would turn a blind eye to his behavioural habits. Though he had been warned constantly that he must be modest about his appearance, Paul couldn't help but recognise his lucky genetics - and of course he used them to his advantage.

His reigning popularity certainly didn't help matters; almost everybody associated with the renowned Paul McCartney was unconsciously wrapped around his finger. Despite being considered overall either charming or completely insufferable in terms of the teaching staff (many of whom could see straight through his innocent facade), he held a rather pristine reputation within the student body.

Girls in particular tended to drool over his musical talent. He had taught himself guitar and piano at a young age and often showcased his expertise for all it was worth. His musical abilities also increased his likeability to a degree; not only did he have the respect of the "cool" kids but also of several teachers and those of a lower status who also had an appreciation for good music. He had grown up listening to older music due to his father's influence and would often pride himself in his unusual taste. School in general, however, was never of noteworthy significance to Paul. So long as he regained his credibility and continued earning half-decent grades, he was satisfied.

Taking GCSE Art had been a last-minute kind of decision as he'd been expected to choose another option besides music (his father, though he encouraged his passion for music, much preferred it remain a hobby and hoped he would opt for something more practical instead – to no avail) and figured it might be fitting as he had somewhat of an artistic flair. Last year's events also meant that he had been hurried to pick another subject to ensure he didn't lag even further behind.

Unfortunately his teacher had been one of several who sorely disliked him and constantly picked on his group. Perhaps they were a little irritating from time to time, but she acted completely repulsed by him! Though Paul was well aware of his (admittedly extensive) flaws, he thought himself a decently well-rounded person. After all, he was always pleasant to people's faces, and he put at least some effort into his artwork. But still they'd terrorised her until she eventually left with the claim that it was because she needed change – which was a convincing enough excuse since she'd been working at the school for God knows how long – but it was no secret that McCartney & Co. tended to push most teachers to their breaking point. He was just extremely lucky that he was naturally rather clever and managed to class most of his classes with a mere bat of his lashes. His other friends weren't so lucky, the poor bastards.

Overall, perhaps, he was occasionally a dislikeable character, but he was aware of his flaws and managed to keep them under wraps most of the time. His egotistical manner was hardly a big deal. All human beings were entitled to weaknesses, surely?

•

Pale clouds blocked whatever light the moon could prevail. Biting winds flung erratically from all directions, carrying the bitter stench of cigarettes and alcohol. Irregular pants escaped through parted lips, forming curls of breath which lingered in the air for a split-second before disintegrating entirely.

Paul McCartney was just slightly tipsy as he made his way home from the uppermost party that week, managing more or less to regain his composure. The streetlights emitted a hazy golden-yellow glow, dancing before his intoxicated eyes as he flung his half-demolished cigarette to the floor and stamped on it vigorously. He couldn't do anything about the stale, smoky scent which clung to his clothes, but if he were to wake his family he doubted they'd notice in their sleepy state. They probably knew he smoked by now, anyhow.

Tonight had been almost exactly the same as every other over the past few weeks or so. He was left staggering aimlessly about the streets of Liverpool in the early hours of the morning, wondering what on Earth he'd wasted hours doing.

Sobriety was almost immediately knocked into him as he recognised the familiar white picket fencing, reaching clumsily for the gate and entering the kitchen as quietly as possible through the back door. As per usual, the house had been left unlocked. Still, his father's absentmindedness when it came to remembering to lock the doors was immensely helpful in situations such as these.

His plan of sneaking upstairs unnoticed was foiled when his eyes adjusted to the blue-black darkness of the kitchen and he acknowledged his father: curled up on a threadbare armchair with a half-empty bottle of whisky cradled to his chest, piggish snores escaping through his parted lips. Paul had learned to ignore the melancholic ache in his chest and instead deal with the situation, so he gently tugged the bottle from his father's grip and put it back into the cupboard as if it had never been touched. The loss of contact caused the slumbering man's eyes to flicker open, revealing bloodshot pupils - from either drunkenness or crying, Paul could never tell which.

He'd promised. He said he wouldn't drink, and yet here he was.

Still, Paul had broken his unspoken promise too. His promise to take care of the family.

"Hello, son," he slurred out, flinging his arms open drunkenly for a hug. In spite of himself Paul accepted the embrace without a second thought, breathing shallowly to avoid the unmissable stench of alcohol clinging to his father.

"'Ello, Da," he mumbled sleepily, holding his arms tightly around the intoxicated figure. He was never a violent or angry drunk. He just tended to cry himself to sleep and plod helplessly around the house the following morning, desperately hungover.

"I love you, Paulie," he mumbled incoherently, voice sounding choked up. Sniffles soon followed, and a damp patch began to form on Paul's shirt. He immediately regretted going out and leaving his father in such a state. And - oh shit! - he'd left his brother to fend for himself, too. Mike liked to make out he was mature but he was just as clueless as his father; the pair needed to be taken care of constantly. Yet again, Paul had let them down.

There weren't many people Paul cared about, but he was willing to do almost anything for his family. They hurt a great deal more than he did and simply didn't know how to deal with it. If it weren't for Paul's assistance the entire family would've crumbled by now.

Paul's mother had held the family together. Now she was gone neither of them really knew what to do with themselves. Nowadays Paul felt he was simply existing, rather than living. Perhaps he could find yet another pretty girl to distract himself with or wreak havoc with his group of loyal minions. That was all he had the will to do lately. Damage others because they deserved to feel whatever sick, strange emotions he felt constantly.

Still, despite his guilt Paul knew he'd go out the following night. And the night after, too. He often needed distractions from his dismal home life; distractions found easily in the attention of his fellow classmates, who were almost delightfully amenable to him.

"I love you too, da'," he replied steadily, trying his best to keep his emotions in control for the sake of the family. The sound of his father's pitiful cries, however, lead him to break down into sobs, too; snivelling feebly into a scratchy woollen jumper.

United they cried shamelessly, sobs soon reverting to helpless cries which shook their entire bodies. Paul stuck determinedly by his father's side as he had for the past few dismal years. The man's breathing eventually evened out and the soft snoring continued as it once had. Still, he continued in his uncomfortable position till he fell into deep slumber; holding his father in his arms for dear life.

•

Paul awoke the next morning with a painful crick in his neck and a cup of steaming tea sat tantalisingly out of reach. Last night flooded back to him in hazy snapshots, and he grabbed his throbbing head with a loud groan.

"You look like shit," a voice said a-matter-of-factly. Paul rolled onto his back and nearly fell off the threadbare armchair as he looked up to meet the narrowed eyes of his brother, whose arms were folded sternly with an attempted motherly nature.

"Sometimes I think I'm the only adult in this household," Michael continued exasperatingly, "I was certainly the only sober member of this household last night."

"Yer a bloody child, Mike, don't talk to me like that," Paul snapped moodily, grabbing the tea and hissing loudly as it spilled onto his hand. Nonetheless he took a big gulp, ignoring the burning in his throat.

"And you were acting like a bloody child when you woke up at 4 o'clock in the morning drunk out of yer mind," Mike shot back condescendingly, "you could've at least thanked me for putting you back to bed."

"You didn't take me to bed," Paul pointed out, "I slept on the armchair and now my entire body aches, so thanks."

"You were in such a state you couldn't walk up the stairs. Kept crying and stumbling and tha' so I gave up in the end."

"Whatever," Paul sulked in surrender, hauling himself from the armchair with aching limbs, "only had a few drinks anyway."

Mike chose to watch him struggle upstairs with a triumphant smirk rather than offer to help, the pompous idiot. Cursing his younger brother under his breath with half-hearted ferocity, Paul gripped the banister of the stairs as he determinedly hauled himself to his en-suite one-by-one. The master bedroom had initially been his father's but he'd begged relentlessly for the biggest bedroom for years till he'd eventually given in. Generally, what Paul wanted was handed to him on a silver platter within the blink of an eye.

As he staggered into the bathroom his eyes widened at his reflection. His unusually dulled hazel-green eyes were edged with startling crimson crevices and underlined with a purplish hue, and his hair resembled that of a rat's nest. In short, his reflection was well and truly hideous. Well, as hideous as he Paul McCartney could possibly get. 

"God, I really _do_ look like shit."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry!!! It’s been so long! In my defence, I had mocks and college taster days and work experience to tackle - but they’re all over now AND I have much more motivation to write so expect new chapters soon!! I’m just glad to get this chapter out of the way so that I can write from Paul’s point of view, to be honest. Once again, apologies!

Shadows swallowed the Art room as pale clouds tried desperately to block whatever light the ever-receding sun could prevail, soaking the classroom in a dull grey haze which juxtaposed the effulgent shards of yellow-gold afternoon sunlight which shot through the windows from time to time.

John Lennon was curled up in his chair, book in one hand and sandwich in the other; the odd turning of a page permeating the comfortable silence. Light bounced off of his features, accentuating the sharpness of his nose and the upward curve of his eyelashes.

The remainder of his day had managed to flow relatively smoothly. After an initial free period he had a year seven class, all of whom seemed mildly terrified of him and in turn were mostly obedient and eager to learn. Later on he had a year ten class, which was slightly worrying; but luckily they were mid-way through their GCSE's and only interested in settling down and cramming whatever work they could into the hour's lesson.

By lunch time he had recuperated his prior exhaustion and instead felt majorly fulfilled; he had survived a day of formal work and the students seemed to like him to a decent standard thus far. His last lesson, however, was a year eleven class which he was absolutely not looking forward to. By year eleven he'd been at his worst and he had no doubts that these students would too; what with the excessive amounts of stress and hormones.

He decided against eating in the staff room as he knew next to none of the teachers - and those that he did recognise had taught him several years back and indubitably held unfavourable opinions of him. Nor did he attempt to befriend the two-man Art department, who he suspected would not appreciate his blatancy or unusual artwork – what with Mr Peterson and his misanthropic disposition and innocuous, pastel-based paintings, and Miss Baker, with her loud-mouthed comments and suitably matching colourful illustrations. His "art" had often been a topic of controversy. He generally used his abilities to evoke humour rather than deeper emotion – though unfortunately people often failed to see the funny side of his work. Some of his more intense pieces produced during difficult periods were just as questionable. His aunt had been horrified when he'd brought pieces home from art college. Needless to say, none of his works were on display in Mimi's house.

After he'd nodded off the last of the year tens he brought out his shop-bought sandwiches and begun eating alone; recollecting his day so far. He'd contemplated phoning his aunt before remembering she always had her gossipy friends round at about midday. They were no doubt chatting about everything under the sun over cups of nauseatingly sweet tea and platefuls of cake. Besides, his day had been uneventful excluding a fight at break time, which he'd watched with mild interest from the balconies before continuing his journey back to his classroom from the canteen.

There was a knock at his door as he was midway through his sandwich, and he shouted a muffled "come in!" before cursing his atrocious manners. He could well picture Mimi lecturing him for his crudeness as Richard Starkey strolled through the door, face stretched into the same unnerving grin.

"Hallo, John!" He exclaimed, "not coming along to the staff room?" A curt shake of the head in response as he placed his book aside morosely, making a mental note of the page. "Can't say I blame you, I can't stand some of the old biddies here. Mind if I join you?"

Notwithstanding his previous annoyance at the disturbance of his break, John offered Richard a seat at one of the tables, who gladly sat down next to him and brought out a crumpled paper bag containing his food rather than the bog-standard mug of filtered coffee and a plateful of the school's poor excuse for food. As he settled down with his lunch he grumbled something or other about insufferable old ladies, running a hand through his mousy mop of hair.

Inwardly preparing a decently appropriate conversation starter (after all, he was a certified 'mature adult' since he'd gotten a job worth bragging about), John fidgeted in his seat, ignoring the nagging voice telling him to mention the year seven who'd painted a hilariously awful self-portrait or the overly flirty year ten girls who'd been all too happy to inform him of the school's gossip. He was now well informed of the year eleven girl who had dropped out due to pregnancy, the group of boys who skipped lessons to smoke behind the bike sheds and various calamitous relationships. Quarry Bank, it seemed, remained ever the cliché.

"So, Richard-"

"Oh, for God's sake call me Ringo, Richard makes me feel like an old man."

"Ringo?" John quirked an eyebrow, unable to contain the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He shovelled the last of the sandwich in his mouth to avoid laughing out loud and leaned back in his seat, eminently interested in the origins of the unusual nickname.

"Yes, it makes me sound some sort of exotic dancer-" John choked mid-chew, spraying crumbs everywhere as he rocked with laughter, "-but I called myself Ringo in secondary school 'cos I was embarrassed of me name and it stuck since then."

"Don't worry, son," John chuckled, all hopes of coming across as adult thrown out of the window as he begun to feel himself unwind, "I don't have it much better."

"John," Ringo said thoughtfully, "it's not all that bad. A bit old-fashioned, maybe."

"Guess me parents were just old-fashioned people," John chuckled lightly, quickly realising his mistake and quietening. Either Ringo didn't acknowledge his sudden silence or chose not to act upon it, because the subject of parents came to a rapid close not long after. Though John felt nothing more than a mere tug at his gut nowadays at the mention of his parents (or lack thereof) rather than his previous pent-up turbulent rage at the mere mention of 'missing' family members, he still chose not to speak up on the subject often. His aunt had remained stony-faced at the prospect of his mother's disappearance and, later, death; meaning he had nobody to empathise with at the effective loss of both of his parents. Doubtless, there were millions of people out there who had lost close family members, but not many were in situations similar to his.

As a teenager he'd constantly brought up his traumatic past as somewhat of a coping mechanism: as if playing it off as no big deal would help him deal with the grieving process. Not only that but he often used it as an excuse for his insufferable behaviour. Now he'd reached adulthood (though he often still felt like a little boy) he rarely brought up the matter unless it felt necessary. Despite the subtle probing looks John could feel Ringo shooting him he refused to meet his eyes - as sympathetic and comforting as his gaze was.

"What class have you got next?" Ringo asked suddenly, drumming his fingers against the tabletop. John looked up once again and finally met his questioning gaze, straightening his posture in the fluorescent, hard-backed chair.

"Bloody year elevens," he muttered eventually, "pain in the asses, no doubt."

"Ah," Ringo clicked his tongue, shaking his head slightly, "unlucky, mate. Whose in yer class? I can tell you who to look out for."

"I haven't checked yet," John admitted, chair legs scraping excruciatingly against the floor as he moved toward his desk to flick through the registers. "11c. Here we go.” He handed the sheet to Ringo who nodded in thanks, eyes flickering to the page to scan through the list of unfamiliar names. John rested his chin in his palm as he eyed Ringo warily, trying desperately to read his untelling expression. He quickly tired of the encumbering silence and spoke up.

"So?"

"Sorry, son," Ringo spoke up eventually, shrugging apologetically, "you haven't got it so lucky this time 'round."

"Yer joking?"

"'Fraid not," he handed him back the paper, gesturing to the first name with a ring-clad finger, "he's a complete moron, for starters-"

"Ben Anderson?" John leaned over Ringo's arm to grab a pen and made a mark by the name, "Noted."

"Well, if you're taking notes..." Ringo proceeded to read out the names of each and every christened "moron" one by one till they reached the near end of the register.

"You'll have to look out for McCartney, too," Ringo apprised as he retrieved a chocolate-chip cookie from the paper bag, "he's a terror."

"Him too?" John groaned in exasperation, pushing his circular glasses farther up his nose as he made yet another mark on the paper, "I've worked here less than a day and I'm already regretting it. Bloody 'ell."

"You'll be fine, mate," Ringo ensured him with a pat on the shoulder. John was beginning to doubt his words of wisdom - not that he hadn't been sceptical from the very first you'll be fine.

"About half of the class are complete dickheads!" John exclaimed, letting his face fall forward to make contact with the table with an agonizing thwack.

"They're not that bad!" Ringo insisted, ever the optimist, "You'll be alright so long as you're on their good side. Your first classes were fine, weren't they?"

"This is year eleven," John pronounced the words slowly and deliberately, "year elevens hate everything and everyone. It's an unspoken rule of adolescence."

"Look, just keep an eye on McCartney and his minions and you'll be fine."

"Is this McCartney the ringleader then?" John asked sullenly, speech slurred from where his face remained pressed against the desk.

"Kind of. He's not necessarily badly behaved from what I've heard," Ringo said contemplatively, "His mates do all the dirty work for him and he gets away unscathed."

"Sounds like a little rat," John mumbled bitterly, begrudgingly shifting about to sit up straight.

"He's a complete charmer, too," Ringo added, "face of an angel an' all that."

By "face of an angel" John presumed Ringo meant the teenage heartthrobs who roamed the corridors when he was in secondary school; loud-mouthed, daunting lads with permanent golden-brown tans and carefully gelled hair: sporting overpriced tracksuits with fancy labels. He'd always been both envious and terrified of those types of boys; he had fit tenaciously into the "druggie" category during his school years and ranked significantly lower down in the popularity hierarchy.

"Brilliant," John remarked wryly, chucking his rubbish toward the bin and missing the target by a good ten centimetres or so. Ah, well. He'd pick it up later.

Just as Ringo opened his mouth to respond - more questionable attempts at reassurance, no doubt - a shrill ringing pierced the air, signalling the end of lunch break. John began to feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead and his glasses slipping down his nose. Furiously, he pushed them up again and wiped the half-obscured lenses with his fingers.

He could do this. No year eleven class could control a mature twenty-two year old man - no matter how domineering they seemed.

As Ringo packed up his lunch and bid him farewell, John's nerves only increased. Miss Baker had already begun over-enthusiastically greeting students next door - her aggravatingly high-pitched voice floated easily through the paper thin walls - as a gaggle of girls filtered through the door, giggling simultaneously and flicking intricately styled hair over their shoulders. John subtly eyed his List Of Morons and wondered whether any of these girls were on there.

"Hello," he greeted with counterfeited enthusiasm as they eyed him curiously, plopping their bags beside desks and slipping into their previously assigned seats.

"You our new teacher?" One girl snapped bluntly, kicking her bag aside as she hunched in her seat with a sour expression. As John opened his mouth to respond, she continued with her brief rant.

"'Cos we've had that shitty supply teacher for weeks now, and I'm failing," she told him, narrowing her eyes oppresingly, "my parents will kill me if I fail."

John willed himself not to come up with a snarky comment in response and instead took a deep breath, bracing himself for the wrath of the year elevens.

"I'm a fully qualified teacher, actually," he informed her pompously with a self-assured jaunt of his chin, "so I can guarantee you won't fail." Well, failing was a matter of whether he had the patience or the willpower to deal with the students, but she needn't know that just yet.

Slowly but surely one acne-ridden teenager after another filed through the door till around two-thirds of the desks were occupied. John leaned against the whiteboard - on which he had set up an introductory PowerPoint - pen in mouth as he glanced up at the insistently ticking clock plastered above the door. Almost five minutes had passed.

"Right!" he clapped his hands together sharply, causing several glazed-over pairs of eyes to avert their attention to his unacquainted presence, "I am Mr Lennon. I will be taking your class over for the remainder of the year."

A ripple of disconcerted mumbles fell over the room as he offered the class an evidently forced smile as a peacemaker.

"Well, do as I say and all that shite-" he paused to allow room for the collective incredulous gasps at the prospect of a grown man swearing, "-and I'm sure we won't run into any trouble. Let's start with the register and establish exactly who the slackers are, shall we?" No response. The usual new-teacher uncertainty, presumably. Still, he grabbed the piece of paper from his desk and observed the markings as he begun calling out names.

"Ben Anderson..?" His voice trailed away as a gaggle of boys filed through the door, clad in dishevelled uniform and radiating the unmistakable stench of Linx, which bled stiflingly into the classroom and hung heavily in the air. As he repeated the name - no doubt the faceless Ben was apart of this crowd - the group ignored him in favour of their mindless chatter. Tumultuous exclamations swallowed John's pathetic attempts to make himself heard and he could feel himself quickly losing patience.

"Ben Anderson!" he bellowed without a second thought and an excessively freckled, red-haired boy tilted his head slightly toward John with perceptible disinterest and raised an eyebrow expectantly. His tie was loosened around his neck and his shirt untucked and rumpled, and John felt his fingers itching to fix his uniform. What was he really thinking: arriving to school in such a state? He startlingly resembled his teenage self - only perhaps this Ben was a little more insufferable.

"How kind of you to bless us with your presence," he deadpanned, a mordacious smile upon his lips, "sit down."

"Who the fuck are you?" The young boy sneered in an attempt to pull off his intimidating facade. John blinked, unfazed.

"Mr Lennon. Weren't you listening when I introduced myself?" He asked deridingly, feigning ignorance.

Nervous giggles rang throughout the classroom as John struggled to fight the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Ben scowled ferociously in lieu of a verbal response, dragging a nearby chair vehemently across the floor and reluctantly slumping back in the seat. There was a pregnant pause as John watched him testily for a brief moment before turning back to the class, pen in hand.

"Fuck this, I'm out," Ben growled suddenly after a minute or so’s pondering, slinging his bag over one shoulder and leaving the classroom briskly, ensuring to slam the door behind him with enough gusto to rattle the windowpanes.

“That’s behaviour points for swearing, too!” John shouted after the retreating figure, unable to keep his triumphant grin under wraps at the string of curse words that soon followed.

"Well, he certainly won't be missed," John muttered, more to himself than the rest of the class; though it bribed several chuckles of approval so he could hardly complain. He managed to read out the remainder of the names uninterrupted, with only a few students missing.

As he begun the lesson with a basic introduction to the subject and his approach to teaching (the same tedious speech he'd given each class so far)  
the door swung open for the upmost time and yet another boy sauntered in, radiating the distinct miasma of cheap cigarettes which clung to his vaguely sinewy frame. The boy, despite carrying the familiar unfaltering smirk and notorious upwards tilt of his chin, seemed somewhat out of place in the classroom; what with his soft androgynous features, fair skin and mop of dark hair slicked messily into a fifties-esque do. John wondered for a split-second whether he had wandered into the wrong classroom - Hell, the wrong school, even - but his suspicious were denied when the group of lads at the back hollered at his delayed appearance.

"McCartney, y'dirty smoker!" Somebody yelled teasingly, and he only grinned tellingly in response, advancing almost in slow-motion toward the back of the classroom where the Certified Morons had marked their territory. Ah, so he was not only apart of The Morons but also the smokers, who met up thrice daily behind the old bike sheds - if the spot was the same as it had been during his Quarry Bank days, that was. John distinctly recalled writing unpleasant remarks about his lesser favourite teachers on the infamous bike sheds as he skipped class in favour of a cigarette (or two or three or four).

John's eyes almost bulged out of his head as he watched their conversation unfold. So this was the renowned Paul McCartney. To say he was shocked was an understatement. He'd expected an almost exact replica of the group of lads he associated himself with, but Paul had a completely different approach to his debut. Unlike his disgruntled group of friends, his uniform was immaculate aside from his scuffed Doc Martens and he reeked not of perspiration and overly strong perfume, but of cigarettes and vanilla. An odd combination, but a pleasant change from the other students he'd encountered nonetheless.

After recovering from his surprise he marked the name off on the register then sent one of the less idiotic girls to hand it into reception, who obliged perfectly willingly with burning cheeks and a heap of high-pitched giggles. He was then free to resume his sleep-inducing introductory speech and let the students get cracking with whatever coursework they had due.

Still, John was a fool to think for even a split-second that the class would continue uninterrupted. Just minutes later McCartney had sauntered from his seat to tease the same girl who’d snapped at him earlier, who feigned annoyance in response but could do nothing to hide the pink flush tickling her cheeks.

“Paul, sit down,” John said patiently, causing the rest of the class to raise their heads. The man in question ignored his request entirely and continued with the conversation, grinning infuriatingly when the girl slapped his arm, keeping her claws pressed against his skin for just a few seconds too long.

“Get some, Paul!” Someone cheered encouragingly from the dreaded corner.

“Right,” John growled through gritted teeth, tone borderline animalistic, “Paul! Sit down and stop flirting with yer bloody bird, you have more than enough time outside of lessons-“

The boy’s gaze lifted uninterestedly to meet his own, and he knitted his eyebrows together in confusion before turning incredulously to his mates.

“Who’s ‘e?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, mate,” a lanky lad spoke overly loudly, shrugging, “I’ve lost count of all the shitty supply teachers we’ve ‘ad since the witch left.”

“He’s a fully qualified teacher, actually,” the girl with her hands still latched determinedly to McCartney’s arm mimicked John’s words from earlier with a smug grin. John was surprised she hadn’t pierced his skin by now.

“Right, sit down for God’s sake, or just leave if yer going to be a pain in the arse because frankly, I don’t want you here,” John snapped, rubbing his thumb and index finger between the bridge of his nose.

“Alright, alright!” He exclaimed, hands in the air in mock-surrender as he sauntered back to his seat. As he made his way back to the corner at an infuriatingly slow pace he stopped at several desks, mainly to tease unresponsive (albeit flattered) girls. Just as he was beginning a particularly sickening conversation about the new Arctic Monkeys album while managing to regain a look of pure innocence and good intention, one of the lads grabbed the waistband of his trousers and dragged him back toward his seat, the group shrieking with appreciative laughter. John curiously took note of the redness pooled on Paul’s cheeks as he settled himself down at the desk and actually begun his work - a reaction startlingly similar to the multiple girls he’d struck up conversations with moments prior. Still, John shook off all prevailing suspicions and turned to his laptop, savouring the silence while it lasted. Palpably, Ringo had been correct; he was right to keep an eye on McCartney and his friends.

•

Once the last of the year tens had filtered out of the classroom John was free to leave as soon as he’d marked the year seven’s work. Though well and truly debilitated, his good mood was unwavering due to the overall success of the school day. Though he’d had some expected troubles with the year tens, the day had otherwise gone well.

As he was marking yet another self-portrait which resembled the artist in no way, shape or form, Mr Brown burst into the classroom unannounced with an amused yet stern expression carved onto his aged features.

“Mr Brown - I mean, Andrew,” John greeted, voice moving up several octaves in pitch as he spoke. His expression - though oddly comforting in its familiarly - undoubtedly meant trouble.

“Good afternoon, John,” he greeted briskly, evidently in a hurry to skip any formalities. Wordlessly, he took a seat opposite John with a no-nonsense frown.

“Is there a problem?” John asked, pretending unconvincingly to be utterly absorbed in marking student’s work so to calm his rapidly beating heart. It was not the first time today he had felt strangely reminded of his teenage self; when he had first approached the school gates this morning, for example, he had felt a sudden overwhelming wave of nostalgia, as did he when he first encountered the oppressive Ben Anderson with his tough exterior and apparent explosive tendencies. The similarities between him and the younger lad had struck him rather forcibly.

“I’m afraid,” Andrew began, clearing his throat audibly as he laced his bony hands together and leaned forward apprehensively, “You didn’t deal with a situation with one of the year tens appropriately earlier.”

John contemplated acting nonchalant, but decided that if he wanted to keep his position he ought to at least tell the truth - even if it was a little watered down.

“Ah. This is about Ben Anderson, I’m presuming?”

“Precisely,” Andrew nodded in affirmative, “perhaps the teacher training we provided you with was not quite explicit enough-“

“Oh no, sir, it was fine! Perfect, really!” John babbled insistently, slipping rapidly into his teenage mindset.

“Well. Please bare in mind that if you have any similar troubles with students in the future, you ought to let staff know so that they can deal with the situation. He almost escaped through the front gates, you know?”

Swallowing an inappropriate giggle, John nodded gravely, bowing his head as if in prayer. “Sorry, sir,” he muttered begrudgingly, lifting a hand to scratch at his cheek with bitten nails, “it won’t happen again.”

“I should hope not,” Andrew agreed in with a mildly pompous nod, rising from his seat with an air of superiority, “Well, I’ll leave you to your work, John. I expect to see you arrive at eight o’clock sharp tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and John?”

John raised his eyes from where he had been staring glumly at a blank page, “Yes?”

“No swearing during lesson time either.  
Not even shite.” And with that he was gone, closing the door carefully behind him in a somewhat passive-aggressive manner. While John too rose from his seat and straightened himself out, he cursed whichever of the little rats had informed the head teacher, of all people, of his foul language. Surely they weren’t trying to get him fired already?

Sighing deeply as he pushed the last of the books aside in defeat, he piled his belongings into his satchel for fear of them being stolen if he left anything of any value in the building. Before pocketing his phone he switched it on to check for any missed messages and sure enough, there were twenty odd missed calls and several incoherent text messages from his aunt and one text from Cynthia.

Deciding it was best to deal with his aunt after at least an hour’s mental preparation, he went straight to the singular text from Cynthia instead.

Cyn ❤️ [2:34] - How’s work going?? I’m off my shift in an hour and a half. Be back home by 5. Xxx

His significant other worked 5 days a week in an office, and how she managed not to off herself was beyond John entirely. Still, she had a gossipy group of girlfriends who she brought home regularly so he supposed she was happy enough working there. Certainly more so than John had eventually been at any of his previous occupations.

Grinning wolfishly at the text and willing himself to push aside his weariness, he typed out a reply.

You [3:47] - year tens are assholes. other than that, fine. bedroom at 5?????

Just moments later he was given a reply.

Cyn ❤️ [3:47] - John!!! I’m at work!

You [3:48] - is that a yes then?

After waiting five minutes John was given no response, which could only mean one thing: he was getting laid. He could have cried with joy at that point.

Ringo was leaning against the rusted iron gates with a cigarette hanging from his lips as he burst from the building from an unusual spring in his step, and opened his mouth to say something as John positively floated past him.

“Sorry, Ringo! Too busy to talk! I’m having sex for the first time in weeks!” John exclaimed joyously, far too ecstatic to bother coming across as a normal human being. Ringo nodded in understanding and waved him off with a supportive smile, half-demolished cigarette dangling between his fingers.

As John skipped through the gates he almost ran straight into a muscular chest, and stopped himself just in time to meet the narrowed eyes of Andrew Brown. His boss. Who had just told him off as if he were still a naughty schoolboy. And who had also supposedly just heard his loud remarks about having sex with his girlfriend.

“G-Good evening, Sir!” John squeaked with a painfully awkward mock-salute.

“Good evening indeed,” he returned, expression stern but the trembling at the corners of his mouth giving him away.

Satisfied he wasn’t going to be fired just yet, John stuttered out yet another greeting before continuing his journey home, head bent downward to avoid the older man’s questioning stare.

As he ambled heartily down the unevenly eroded pathways he heard a loud bark of laughter erupting some metres behind him. He smiled knowingly in return, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket with yet another frantic flood of calls from Mimi.

Perhaps the entirety of year ten hated him at present, but he had made a singular friend who didn’t seem remotely terrified of him, and his boss wasn’t holding too much of a grudge over his past mishaps.

And besides, he was about to have what would likely be the most reliving night of his entire life in just an hour or so’s time. He had no time to worry about a class of angsty teens - for now, at least.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an absolutely awful excuse of a chapter, I’m so sorry! I’ve been really lacking motivation lately.

Rich, mellow music obdurated the quiet of the music room, strangling the stillness in melancholy as calloused hands danced across strings with the carefree likeness of running water. Eyes fixated on the curves of the glossy instrument, Paul’s fingers struck chord after chord with painstaking precision, each careful note strung with intense and heartfelt emotion.

 

His overly pedantic habits were disturbed as a familiar emaciated frame stumbled through the doorway, expression decidedly sullen. George Harrison promptly spread himself across his neighbouring desk in an awkward cross-legged position, retrieving his beloved guitar from its case and beginning to tune it without a nod of recognition in Paul’s direction. Wisps of mousey hair fell forward as he leaned slightly to meet the strings of the instrument, half-obscuring his vision, and he flicked them away irritably to reveal mildly threatening narrowed eyes.

 

Now, if there was one thing Paul McCartney positively detested it was being ignored. Having abandoned George that lunch time (despite his promise for them to practise guitar together) in favour of his other friends, it was no surprise he was peeved - not that he ever made any effort to voice his concerns. Paul had next to no natural ability to empathise with others - George tended to just listen to his problems rather than vice versa, and never comment on the incredulousness of his petty protests. That was the main benefit of having George as a friend; though Paul most likely irked him constantly, he seldom commented on it.

 

Silence regulate the following five minutes or so, till Paul quickly tired of the lack of conversation and poked George’s shoulder indignantly mid-piece, lips pulled into a pout with the comical oddity of a sulky child.

 

“Hiya, George,” he began brightly, grinning unwaveringly as he twirled an ebony curl round his pinky finger absentmindedly.

 

“You didn’t show up at lunch today,” George stated standoffishly, positioning his fingers to an A Minor chord to check his guitar was properly tuned before launching into a jolly ditty which contrasted most ironically with his foul mood.

 

“No,” Paul agreed vaguely, sliding his instrument aside and wringing his hands apprehensively in his lap. “I had to stay with the lads, y’see, they wanted me to-“

 

“I don’t really care, Paul,” George told him matter-of-factly, and Paul could tell judging purely by his solemn expression that he was telling the truth. He had no interest in the ongoings of Paul and his friends - he cared only for the music.

 

“No need to be a wanker, Georgie,” Paul remarked lightly, tone borderline mordacious as he looked through his eyelashes to meet his friend’s slitted eyes.

 

“I’m simply not interested in the affairs of you and the lads,” George said haughtily, scowling with the irritation of a thousand suns; fingers digging into the strings with considerable force as he glanced upwards to meet Paul’s gaze with a testy frown.

 

“You could come back to mine,” Paul suggested with mock-innocence, a grin of divine wickedness surpassing his features when George’s eyes widened in alarm, “To make up for abandoning you,” his tone took on a soft, derisive lisp as he neared the end of the sentence which did him no favours in sedating the latter’s infuriation.

 

“I’m not givin’ you another snog, if that’s what yer after,” George bit back scornfully,  satisfied when Paul visibly flinched. Paul’s arbitrary homosexual inclinations were otherwise unspoken of – he was far too embarrassed of his strange temperament to wind it into casual conversation. George was the only person who knew, for Christ’s sake, and that was only because Paul occasionally used him as a lab monkey for his own certain experiments.

 

“I don’t want a – I don’t want that!” Paul insisted with an air of incredulousness, throwing his hands into the air in dissent, “you jus’ told me you’d learnt  Twenty Flight Rock, s’all. Thought you could show it to me.”

 

“Alright, Paulie,” George smiled knowingly, knowing it was no good arguing with Paul’s stubborn character, “I’ll show y’ Twenty Flight Rock if you so wish.”

 

Throwing him a disdainful sideways glance, Paul arose from his seat at the graffitied desk and George soon followed in tow, casing his guitar with the careful attentiveness you would use handling a newborn child.

 

“If me da’s home we might hafta go down to Strawberry Fields,” Paul explained solemnly as he fell into step with George’s brisk pace, “y’know what he’s like in the evenings.”

 

Typically of the bipolar British weather, the sunlight had soon been eradicated entirely and storms were rapidly rolling in, grumbling as though foreboding imminent events as rain spat about haphazardly. Ducking under the hood of his threadbare jacket, Paul eyed his scrawny friend who had made do without shelter.

 

“You want me jacket?” he asked nobly, with no intention whatsoever of actually giving it away. George must have latched onto that fact because he shot Paul a no-can-do smile and shrugged virtuously.

 

“Yer not my boyfriend, son,” he replied cheekily, “I’ll be alright.”

 

Paul decided it would be best to let the comment slide, and instead huffed with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t call me son,” he teased – voice taking on a much more friendly approach this time round – “I’m a year older. Don’t you forget it.”

 

“You won’t let me!” George laughed lowly, shoving his hands into his blazer pockets.

 

Wilted peonies nodded in recognition to the schoolboys as they approached Paul’s front door. He slipped the key from its usual place under a crumbling ceramic pot of long-gone lavender and tiptoed into the porch as quietly as possible. George cluttered in behind him, tripping over the front step and lurching forward to grasp desperately at the wiry curve of Paul’s back.

 

“Are ye trying to wake the bloody dead?” Paul hissed angrily, peeling off George’s death grip with a grimace.

 

“Me hair’s all wet,” George complained loudly, shaking his head vigorously and in turn splattering rainwater all over the tasteless mustard-coloured walls.

 

“For God’s sake, stop! I only painted those a few months ago!”

 

“They need painting again, mate,” George snorted disdainfully, wringing his damp locks through his bony fingers, “looks absolutely awful.”

 

Paul stuck his nose in the air snootily, “you don’t know the first thing about interior design!” he insisted, arms planted firmly on his hips.

 

George fell about laughing then, grasping blindly at the offending walls for support. “How on earth do your friends not know yer a raging homosexual?”

 

“W-Wha- I’m not-”

 

“You’re gay, mate.”

 

“I’m not!” he spluttered, tugging at the ends of his hair frustratedly. George wasn’t supposed to mention his unorthodox inclinations! George wasn’t supposed to speak all that much full stop!

 

“You’re attracted to men. That makes you gay.”

 

“I’M NOT GAY!” Paul screeched.

 

The pair froze as a loud groan was emitted from somewhere within the depths of Paul’s grubby two-floor home, followed by a gritty, “Paul?”

 

“Fuckshitballs,” Paul cursed, dashing up the stairs two at a time in a panicked flurry and knocking tentatively at his father’s bedroom door.

 

“Dad?” he crooned softly, “are you alright?”

 

“What the bloody Hell were you yelling about?” came the grumbly reply, and Paul breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

 

“Jus’ George, dad,” he explained patiently, creaking the door ajar slightly to check his father was in an acceptable state before positioning himself at the foot of the bed, “y’know George?”

 

“Course I do,” Jim McCartney smiled tiredly, rubbing at his purple-rimmed eyes, “the lanky lad with the guitar.”

 

Paul smirked and eyed his younger friend, who was dithering awkwardly in the doorway.

 

“We’re off to practise,” he told him, “I’ll be back around ten. Either that or I’ll stay at George’s and be home by tomorrow.”

 

“You and yer bloody guitar,” Jim knitted his eyebrows together sternly, voice weak and sleep-deprived but his message crystal-clear nonetheless, “I don’t like you focusing on music all the time, son, you’ve got GCSE’s coming up next summer and-”

 

“I’ll revise when I get back, alright?” Paul compromised, springing abruptly from the bed before he changed his mind, “give Mike my love if I don’t see him till tomorrow.”

 

As the pair were slipping through the front door Mike caught them on his way back from school, camera slung around his neck and a redhead latched onto his arm.

 

“Where’re you off to, then?” he demanded, eyes narrowed. Paul ignored his younger brother entirely and instead offered the girl a charming grin, holding out his hand with a battering of his eyelashes.

 

“Paul,” he introduced with a smile that could melt chocolate, and George and Mike simultaneously rolled their eyes as the girl giggled obliviously.

 

“We’re going out to practice, then he’ll probably head off to some party,” George answered for him.

 

“Well, I hope yer happy looking after him while he’s drunk because I’m off duty tonight,” Mike sneered, tugging the protesting bird inside by her arm and slamming the door firmly shut behind them.  

 

Paul blinked, momentarily in shock, before shrugging and heading off toward the direction of Strawberry Fields, George scrambling to follow him.

 

•

 

Though once resplendent, Strawberry Fields had long passed its heyday and remained a picture of shabby greenery and the occasional patch of grass thickened with uncontrolled discordant petal colours. Undeterred nonetheless, George and Paul spread themselves underneath a hundred-year old Oak, its roots twisting and turning erratically and long-limbed branches curling around the pair in a protective embrace.

 

“Bugger!” George exclaimed as he rummaged in his breast pocket with one hand, using the other to scratch irritably at the side of his nose with a dirtied fingernail, “me cigs are all damp. No use now, s’pose.” Paul dug his feet agitatedly into the dirt as he looked upon his friend, pressing to begin practise before it was too late. The prevailing sunlight was already dipping behind skies of fluorescent scarlet and fuchsia, half-casting George’s features in a soft golden glow.

 

“I’ve got me own, you can have them,” Paul offered impatiently, patting his bulging blazer pocket to prove a point.

 

“C’mon then, show me Twenty Flight Rock,” he encouraged with a toothy grin, featuring wildly to George’s pristine guitar.

 

After pausing to position his guitar comfortably in his lap, George launched into an impressive rendition of Twenty Flight Rock, singing with a mock American accent to mimic the original. Paul watched with a wide-eyed attentive look of appreciation, lips twisted into a closed-mouthed smile.

 

“That was pretty good,” he nodded nonchalantly as George finished with a flourish, and despite minimal praise the younger of the two could make out the sparkle in Paul’s eye, which gave way to his true feelings towards the piece.

 

“Thanks,” George retorted, leaning forward to drag Paul’s dogeared guitar from its case, “figured I could teach you. Might impress yer da’.”

 

As Paul eagerly grabbed his guitar from George’s hold, a sudden nearby shout startled the pair. It was then followed by two voices arguing animatedly between themselves, their incredulous yelling slowly making its way towards where they were positioned beneath the tree. George looked suitably uninterested, but Paul’s curious nature perked up in interest as he twisted his head to the side of the tree to make out the couple. Besides, the nasally voice producing strings of curses sounded vaguely familiar.

 

“Oh my God!” Paul gasped in disbelief, chuckling lowly in apparent delight as he swung his body further to confirm his suspicions, only to lose his balance and fall forward with the clanging of strings and a small “oof”.

 

Two bewildered pairs of eyes swung to meet his, and he grinned sheepishly at the sight of his new Art teacher - looking even more distressed than he had previously, if that were even possible - and a young woman with soft, feminine features carved into a troubled expression and platinum-blond hair which had evidently been dyed at some point.

 

“Mr Lennon,” he greeted, voice dripping with sarcasm as he held out a hand fromhis position on the damp grass.

 

“I’m surprised you even remembered my name,” John retorted snappishly, before snapping into teacher mode and adding in a much more civil tone, “Paul.” He eyed the hand disdainfully before ignoring the handshake entirely. 

 

“Oh, I never forget a name,” Paul proclaimed in mock-earnest, tone laced with something almost flirty which sounded unfamiliar spilling from his lips. He blushed furiously as he spoke, suddenly aware of how idiotic he probably sounded. What was he thinking, acting so coy toward his arse of an Art teacher?

 

“Do you make a habit of lying down in public areas, then?” Mr Lennon asked pleasantly, blatantly ignoring the blonde tugging impatiently on his sleeve with a disinterested expression.

 

“No, I’m - I’m practicing guitar,” Paul told him seriously, wringing his hands nervously in front of him when Mr Lennon’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

 

“By yourself?”

 

“Yes-“ he began, because as much as he appreciated George’s company it wouldn’t do any good to his reputation if his friends were to somehow find out about them hanging out outside of school. However, he was cut off by a head popping nosily round the trunk of the tree, guitar clutched in one hand. George grinned and ignored Paul’s indignant glare as he eyed Mr Lennon shamelessly.

 

“George Harrison,” he introduced, “I’m in year eleven too.”

 

“For God’s sake, John, stop gossiping with your students,” the blonde snapped, wrapping a long-nailed hand protectively around his wrist, “we need to talk.” 

 

“Nice to meet you, boys,” she added as an afterthought, smiling with false politeness as she dragged Mr Lennon - or rather, John - away by his hand.

 

“Well,” George blinked, flabbergasted, “he’s the new art teacher, then?”

 

“...Yes,” Paul confirmed absentmindedly, still lying in a ridiculous foetal position on the scrubby grass.

 

“He’s hot,” George commented carelessly. Paul shot up with an incredulous expression, hair flopping forward as he rocked back onto his heels. “Is not!”

 

“Maybe,” George smiled mysteriously, dragging his eyes back to the guitar, strumming a few chords lazily. Paul stated after him with furrowed brows, before grabbing his own guitar and joining in.

 

Sometimes, he didn’t understand George at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
